


The Rare Grace

by lazulisong



Series: HAIRBALLER [14]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Animal Transformation, Cats, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:04:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulisong/pseuds/lazulisong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If animals could speak, the dog would be a blundering outspoken fellow; but the cat would have the rare grace of never saying a word too much.” -Mark Twain</p><p> <br/><i>"John doesn't obey me, Detective, " says Harold. "He sometimes agrees with me, however."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leupagus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/gifts).



> See end notes for trigger warning.
> 
> One day I'm gonna open the door and my roommates will have a banner with HAPPY INTERVENTION painted on it hanging on the wall. I hope they give me cookies.

When Harold calls Carter to a fairly shitty motel room down in Brooklyn, she comes armed and expecting anything. Like there was the time with the baby they don't talk about any more, and there was also the time with the cooler they'd rescued from a hijacked UNOS transport with an actual human heart that she had to take to a hospital, sirens screaming. Or the time with John smiling his happy I'm-going-to-beat-the-shit-out-of-something smile, moving toward a mafia goon and saying, "But Detective, it's your _birthday_." ("How about flowers next time," she said, wrenching the goon into handcuffs afterward. "Flowers are so impersonal," said John, and the hell of it was she didn't think he was joking.) Well, she was expecting almost anything.

"Where's John?" she says.

"That's the problem," says Harold, and points to the table.

"Are you kidding me?" says Carter.

"I wish I were, Detective," says Harold.

"The worst of it is," says Carter, staring, "this isn't even the strangest thing I've seen happen around you two."

"Thank you, Detective," says Harold, voice tight. "Your input, however unnecessary, is appreciated."

John doesn't say anything, but John is currently one of the biggest cats Carter has ever seen, one of those rangy motherfuckers you see lurking around alleys and abandoned buildings. He's lying across the table, stretched out full length between Harold and Harold's laptop, so Harold can't reach over it to type. He's easily three and a half feet long from nose to tail, and if he weighs much under twenty pounds Carter would be surprised.

"How does this even _happen_ to you," she marvels.

"Perhaps," says Harold, even more tightly, "perhaps, Detective, instead of asking fruitless questions you could _help me solve this_."

John opens one eye and regards Harold with tolerant disdain. That, at least, is still the same, thinks Carter, fighting a hysterical laugh. "Give me a second to get used to the idea," she says. "You got any idea who or what did this?"

Harold passes over a sheaf of printouts. "We think -- the current client may have had something to do with this," he says. He sounds perfectly calm, but Carter thinks he's pretty upset. Well of course he is, thinks Carter, his partner is licking his tail with studied carelessness and then pretending to go back to sleep. Which --

"How are you going to get him home?" says Carter. For all she knows they both sleep hanging upside down in old churches like bats. She can sometimes imagine John with an apartment, probably one of those shitty by the week ones in case he gets burned or made or whatever he thinks is going to happen to him, and with a heroic effort she can manage him going to the bodega and buying instant coffee. She's pretty sure Harold plugs himself into an electrical socket in a closet somewhere. Maybe at the Met.

Harold sighs, takes off his glasses and cleans them on his impeccable handkerchief. "I -- I sent out to a pet store." He points over to a corner, where a carrier that looks more expensive than the carseat Taylor had used until he was five is sitting. There are claw marks all around the waxed canvas of the entry; Harold doesn't seem to be bleeding but John's always been very efficient when he chooses to be.

"I see that went well," says Carter.

"Perhaps you would like to try, Detective?" says Harold, acid.

Carter looks over at John. He yawns at her, pointed teeth gleaming against the smoky grey of his fur, and stretches out to display corded muscle and long legs. His paws spread apart and his claws come out. They're thick and shaped like fishhooks, and have needle thin, obviously sharp tips. "Huh," she says. "What about a harness? He might not mind that so much."

"He's very proud," says Harold. "I suppose it couldn't hurt to try."

Speaking of harnesses -- "Where's that dog of yours?" she says. "Aren't you worried about him and --"

A thin, sad whine comes from under the table, and Bear pokes his head out. His nose is decorated with three or four shallow but business-like slashes, as if the person who had inflicted them was making a point but didn't care to use full force. He creeps out with flattened ears and rolls his eyes toward John, who licks one paw and stares back at him deliberately. Bear slinks around to Carter, carefully keeping Harold between him and John, and huddles up behind her. He makes a surprisingly compact bundle for a seventy-five pound killing machine. "Really, John?" says Carter. "Really?"

"It's probably for the best," says Harold. "Malinois have high prey drives."

"So he ripped his nose to shreds?" says Carter, aware of a headache beginning to throb at her temple.

"Well," says Harold, "Bear knows John won't put up with it now."

"Unbelievable," says Carter. "Can't you just -- won't John listen to you? If you tell him to do something?"

"John never obeys," says Harold. "Sometimes he agrees with what I want to do."

"So what you're saying is he was pretty much a cat anyway," says Carter, dry.

"Perhaps," says Harold. "I don't think he would think of himself in that way." He holds out his hand, curled slightly, in front of John, about three inches away. Carter holds her breath. John could strike out, do real damage, even a tenth his usual size. John sniffs at Harold's hand and nudges at it with his muzzle. Harold turns his hand sideways, offering his curled fingers to John. He isn't quite petting him, but letting John rub his grey head against his fingers as much as he likes.

"Well," says Carter.

"If you could research those for me," says Harold, still watching John as he gets up, coming close enough to sniff at Harold's cuff, "I think we could solve this sooner rather than later."

Carter eyes John dubiously. "You'll call if you need help with him? Does your apartment allow cats?"

Harold turns his head a little and looks at her. "I don't believe my landlord will make any difficulties about John."

"Riiight," says Carter. She picks up her coat, scratches Bear behind his ear and says, "Well, John, I hope you … feel more like yourself soon."

"I'm sure he hopes so too," says Harold politely, and Carter leaves them and Bear alone in the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I spent three weeks of January with an epic cold, recovered for about a week, spent another week brewing another cold (thanks, Resident, for coughing repeatedly in my face! I love you too!) and have spent my entire precious vacation coughing like the last stages of consumption. So obviously writing has been a problem. I did nearly get my sweater finished and I have two days before my birthday! Whoo! tl;dr I am sorry I am even slower than I thought I would be, and can someone tell me if I can trade in for new lungs somewhere. I quit smoking seven years ago for this?
> 
> 2\. Reesecat has a pudge because of repeated, terrifying discussions on Twitter, Tumblr and IM about his actor's need for manspanx, and the show's decision to actually _show the manspanx on camera_. Like we love you Jim but less donuts okay.

Harold calls the pet store again under the bored surveillance of John and the slightly anxious gaze of Bear, who keeps looking from John to Harold and back again, and whining softly. He has a look on his face like he has no idea what is going on or where his favored human is, but would like Harold to fix it, right away, please.

"I'm trying," he says to Bear, and then says into the phone, "Yes, I need a delivery made, please."

The delivery comes via a young person with a ridiculous amount of piercings, an iPhone running iOS 5, and a very rusty bike. He eyes Bear with due caution but doesn't seem frightened of him at all. "That's one bigass cat," he says by way of a pleasantry. "You steal him from the zoo?"

"No," says Harold.

"You need some help getting him into the carrier?" says the delivery guy, doubtfully. He looks at the courier, then back at John. "You could wrap him in a towel and kind of shove him in, I guess."

Harold opens the package and removes the leather leash and harness. It's high quality, soft, dyed black, and he thinks John is going to rip them apart just to be stubborn about it. "Thank you kindly," he says, to the carrier, and pulls out a fifty. "I wonder if you could donate the carrier for me?"

"You think he's going to do any better with a lead?" says the courier skeptically, and John, contrary creature that he is, lays his ears back and stands up. Harold wraps the harness around his chest and buckles it carefully, testing the give, before hooking the leash to it. "He's probably going to do that thing like the cat on the internet," says the courier.

'Which cat on the internet?" says Harold, watching carefully as John sniffs the lead and then hops down from the desk, dragging the lead after him. He stops just shy of pulling at it, and turns his head to examine it again before he licks his shoulder with studied indifference. Harold pulls gently at the leash, and John flicks one ear at him before moving a few steps closer to him. Harold lets out a tiny sigh of relief. John probably isn't happy about this -- who would be? -- but he's obviously willing to play along as long as he isn't caged. Harold should have known better than to attempt putting him in a carrier. Foolish, foolish.

"The nope cat," says the courier. "Huh." He picks up the carrier and says, "Thank you for your purchase, Mr Grouse. I'll drop this off at the shelter."

"Thank you," murmurs Harold, as the courier lets himself out and Bear comes out from under the desk, slinking up to John, tail down but wagging a little, uncertainly. John allows him to sniff at his ears and back before he jumps out of reach, giving Harold a look like "well?"

Harold packs up his laptop, and says, "Bear, _heir_." When Bear pads up to him and stands at attention, he hooks Bear's lead to his collar and puts both leads in one hand, leaving the other free for his laptop and the duffel full of John's clothing. It's awkward, but John doesn't try to pull away and Bear is too well-trained to do anything but stick to Harold's side. He takes them both out to the car, piles the duffel on the back seat and tells Bear to get in beside it. John jumps on the front seat and sits on his haunches calmly, tilting his ears up toward Harold as if to ask what the delay is.

Harold hesitates. He could take the animals to John's apartment, but he's reluctant to breach John's privacy like that, even if he'd bought the apartment to begin with, and by taking them there he'd be breaking the polite fiction that Bear stays with Harold at the library because he can't stay at John's apartment. He can't take them home, because with his luck and John's bullheadedness, he'd remember where the house was and come back when he was human, all tall and pleased with himself and getting into what few parts of Harold's life he wasn't inextricably wound up in already. The library isn't ideal. John's apt to lose himself in the stacks and jump down on Bear like a leopard stalking its helpless prey, but it can't be helped.

He pulls the car out and drives to the library. John puts his paws up on the dash and watches the city pass by. "That's not very safe," says Harold mildly, and John flicks his ear at him and curls up on the seat. When they arrive at the library, John stays where he's at while Harold hustles Bear and a load of supplies in, waiting until Harold picks up his leash to yawn widely, all pink mouth and sharp fangs, and stretch. Then he refuses to move until Harold picks him up.

"Really, Mr Reese," says Harold. John's fur is very sleek and fine, an elegant agouti in grays and blacks. John wriggles until he has his paws balanced on Harold's shoulder, watching their backs. How very John of him. Harold isn't sure what John thinks he's going to do if they're attacked, although he supposed that with the claws and the teeth and the sheer bloodymindedness, John would still be a better fighter than Harold. Even though he has white tipped paws and the spot on his upper lip that Grace had claimed was a sure sign a cat loved milk too much. As he sets him down on one of the tables inside the library to unclip his lead and John leaps down to the floor, he sees that as a cat John is very slightly soft around the middle. Not fat, but enough that there's definitely movement in his belly as he moves.

"Perhaps _indoor_ cat food," says Harold aloud. John turns his head and gives him a scathing look. Harold wonders if John is eating a little better these days. Not enough for it to matter, with his active life, but perhaps enough that his pants are a little snuggish, but not enough to bother buying new ones.

Firstly: Harold is looking into John's wardrobe the first chance he gets. There's no excuse for anything not to fit properly.

Secondly: The thought that John feels safe enough to not be greyhound thin and nervous makes Harold feel unexpectedly warm inside.

That doesn't matter now; Harold puts the thought aside and follows John as he trots toward the main office area with his tail curled up above his back.

They've got problems to solve and a number to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eta: [someone on tumblr wanted to know what Reesecat looked like](http://lazulisong.tumblr.com/post/43605414402/do-you-have-a-reference-pic-in-mind-when-you-think-of).


	3. short interlude: predatorial animal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a short interlude from John's point of view, and by that I mean, trigger warning for cats being predators.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CATS HUNT THINGS.
> 
> Also if you think I'm exaggerating about little tragic lines of death laid out for humans you ... have never had a barn cat as a bro. Our first cat used to try to bring enough in to feed the entire family. Which, while his heart was in the right place.

John waits politely for the human to be distracted before he gets up and jumps to the ground. The dust makes him sneeze twice, and he licks his tail and silently dares the dog, huddled in on a pillow, to say anything. The dog stares at him with sad, confused eyes and gives a subvocal whine.

The human doesn't hear it of course, and John graciously chooses to believe that the dog has been taught to fear his superior grace, cunning, and species and steps around him. The dog rolls over on its back, paws up in the air.

John curls his tail up and trots off to explore.

The first thing he finds is a room with human food in it -- the canned and boxed type, of course, because humans are strange. John wrinkles his nose at it and drinks out of the dog's bowl, taking a few bites of his kibble, just to make a point. Dog kibble is dry and tastes of straw; John won't eat it again unless the dog is getting uppity. He sniffs the human food too in case there's something good in it, but it just smells like cardboard and cans and faintly of food coloring and fats.

Huh. Maybe he should make sure the human has real food. An old place like this, all books and neglect -- surely there's enough mice to feed even a human. The human moved like it was injured, so John has doubts that he'd be able to teach it how to hunt. Well, no matter: John can definitely bring down enough for both of them and the dog, too, if he's feeling gracious.

He jumps down from the cabinet again and trots out to the main library area. The human is still at work on the boxes; the dog lifts its head, stares at John for a minute, and then puts its head down sadly. John heads into the stacks, which are nicely dim and smell of mice. There's some of the poison humans put down for them, but the poison is old and obviously hadn't done its job. John slinks along the bookshelves, smelling with his mouth open. There -- right there -- he jumps out with a powerful kick of his feet --

A sharp, sad squeak, a satisfying crunch of bone and a burst of blood, and John trots back to the human's room, arranging the mouse so the human will see it when it looks up.

Then he turns around and goes back. Soon the mice are going to realize there's a predator around, and he wants to get enough for the human to eat while they're still unwary.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Trigger warning just in case: description of dog with injuries caused by a cat who is actually a human: in an off-camera scene Bear tries to get close to Reesecat and Reesecat retaliates by swiping his nose with his claws. Finch is dismissive of it because he thinks Bear needs to know that Reesecat is not an object for his prey drive. 
> 
> 2\. Reesecat is a grey tabby with tuxedo patterning, so basically he looks like a cat in a suit. Heh.
> 
> 3\. This is the THIRD TIME I have written about someone being turned into a cat because of Gus. I was going to be all smooth here in PoI okay. Artistic. Deep. Ha.


End file.
